


With All Fear

by cjk1701



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-01
Updated: 2012-04-01
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:17:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjk1701/pseuds/cjk1701
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sensible man would leave and forget the whole thing. John makes an impulsive purchase instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With All Fear

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slavery AU that deals with disturbing themes, including mentions of non-con and violence. Please do not proceed if this is not your thing.

_Servants, be subject to your masters with all fear; not only to the good and gentle, but also to the froward._

1 Peter 2:18

 

Slavery is an integral part of a functioning society. Slavery is a social atavism. Slavery is vital to sustaining a functioning economy. Slavery is demeaning and immoral. Slavery keeps a society healthy. Slavery is the rotting core of an obsolete empire.

John is intimately familiar with both sides of the argument.

 

* * *

 

There aren't many visible slaves in London nowadays. Most of them are out on the outskirts, living in the little campus-like constructs that have grown around factory dormitories, or out in the country working farms. The domestic slaves are near invisible now that uniforms have gone out of fashion, only ever out on errands. There are the occasional sex slaves out on display, of course, but John's only ever seen them on the telly, draped over their owners or trailing behind on delicate gold chains, status symbols for fashion designers and aging pop stars.  
  
And then there's the other side of their ordered lives. John's seen a lot of it as a young doctor, before he signed up to be shot at. The near-skeletal, bloody and bruised ghosts in A&E, the ones who would barely talk and usually disappeared without a trace. The many unnamed and unclaimed corpses in the morgue that never seemed to interest the police that much. The young girls who would do anything to disfigure themselves on purpose so that they could be dismissed from domestic positions, and the unlucky ones that tried too hard or not soon enough. The orphanages full of thin, quiet children.  
  
Harry had never understood why he hadn't wanted to continue at the hospital. None of his younger colleagues had been surprised when he'd enlisted. 

 

* * *

 

Afghanistan lets him go, but only just. John is pushing forty, scarred inside and out, and isn't sure which is which where his leg is concerned. His army pension doesn't amount to much and he wouldn't have been able to afford London at all if not for an unexpected legacy that drops into his lap two weeks after he is back home. A distant aunt he'd never liked very much while she was alive has left him and Harry a tiny two-up-two-down and some money. Harry has no objections to taking the money and letting him keep the house, which settles the matter of John staying in London once and for all. He finds a part-time job at a nearby surgery and considers getting a dog to keep him company.  
  
London is a shock after Afghanistan. It's too loud and dirty in all the wrong ways; definitely too crowded. John feels strangely adrift. He's doing his best to enjoy the long showers and a real bed but there is also the undeniable fact that if he dropped dead that very minute there'd be nobody to miss him and barely anyone to notice.  
  
There's also the other undeniable fact: he can keep up with the shopping and the laundry, but keeping the house as clean as he likes to isn't easy with a bad leg and a limited range of motion in his dominant arm.  
  
"Get a contract with one of those agencies," Harry says over a pub lunch. "I know a good one, they do cooking as well as cleaning."  
  
"I couldn't afford their rates," John says, not for the first time.  
  
Harry shrugs. "Get a domestic, then."  
  
John chuckles humourlessly. "Oh right, so not a temporal contract with an agency but a permanent live-in professional who costs more than I make in a year."  
  
"Doesn't have to be a _professional_ ," Harry says rolling her eyes.  
  
John rolls his right back and they bicker about cooking for the rest of the hour.  
  
He doesn't even know if Harry was being serious, but when he almost falls down the stairs as his leg gives out he finds himself looking up domestic listings on the internet, just out of half-morbid interest.  
  
The top-level ones, those who speak three languages, have all kind of certifications and references and are advertised as being good at music lessons for pre-school kids, those cost enough to make John whistle through his teeth and wonder at the elasticity of the market. Even young maids with barely any skills or experience are out of his price range. The unskilled ones are affordable, but that's a lottery: with his luck he'd end up with a sulky delinquent, microchip or no microchip.  
  
Still, on his next day off he finds himself on the train down to Feltham's markets. John has enough self-awareness to know that he wouldn't be able to tell a promising domestic from a useless waste of money but is also impulsive enough to want to try.  
  
The market is more boring than dreary. The long halls are partitioned into sections, with a central corridor for potential customers and pens for the merchandise, with desks for the salespeople in between. On a Wednesday morning there is not much business in the domestic sections, just a few bulk buyers from hotels and restaurants looking for stop-gaps.  
  
John wanders the central corridor feeling vaguely uncomfortable. For the most part the slaves look clean and whole, if rather bored. No young women, he notices, and barely anyone older than his own age. None of them meet his eyes, of course, and he can't imagine actually having any of them as a quiet presence in his house. None of them look _real_ , somehow, which probably says more about him than about them.  
  
Across the yard there's another building, not as well lit and dingier, with cigarette butts littering the floor. The pens are narrower and there's a smell, sweat and unwashed clothing. John limps faster, regretting having come in at all, his cane sticking to some of the fresher gum stains.  
  
He is nearing the exit at the other end of the corridor when there's a shout to his left. There's a half-empty pen, its occupants all crowding in the back save one who is down on the dirty floor, arm still raised as if it would protect him from the electroprod  that the salesman is pointing at him through the bars.  
  
A sane man would just go home, John thinks, but he is already tapping the salesman on the shoulder. This close the smell of unwashed human is overwhelming, and not all of it is coming from the slaves.  
  
"Be careful with that," he says sharply. "They've been known to cause cardiac arrest."  
  
The salesman turns around and gives him the beginning of a glare that melts into an oily smile when he realises that John is a potential customer. "Not to worry, sir," he says brightly. "They can handle it. Has the constitution of a horse, that one."  
  
John looks down and wonders whether to point out that horses are quite delicate animals, all things considered. The man on the floor is taller than John and probably some years older; hard to tell with stubble and matted, thinning hair covering half his face. The bruises are unmistakable, however, as is the tremor in the still raised hand.  
  
Offhand John can't think of any reason to punish a slave in front of buyers, especially not if he belongs to what looks to be a small and struggling reseller and not a big company. Troublemakers and criminals are removed, one way or the other, but the overall aim is to preserve order and to sell the merchandise, not to cause a scene. This is making all sorts of alarm bells ring in John's mind.  
  
He looks at the frightened clutch of people in the back of the pen and back at the one on the floor. "Can you stand?"  
  
"Get up, you lazy sod; you heard the gentleman!" the salesman echoes immediately, hoisting the 'prod again. John does a poor job of hiding his disgusted wince.  
  
The slave gets up on all fours and pulls himself up by holding onto the bars. He is shaking but his eyes as they slide quickly and furtively over John's face are focussed. The ID tag on his chest catches John's attention: the price is almost insultingly low.  
  
"Is he damaged?" he asks the salesman.  
  
"Our merchandise is always in the best possible condition!" the man says with a decent go at wounded indignation.  
  
John keeps his expression neutrally interested. "Why the price, if he is that healthy?"  
  
"Unfit for heavy work, he is," the salesman says quickly, almost too quickly. "No stamina, that one."  
  
"This is the domestic section, not construction," John points out. "Can he cook?"  
  
"No, sir, you're out of luck there." The salesman points to a middle-aged female who is staring at him through a greasy fringe. "That one is a good cook. Very healthy, too."  
  
"Not interested, thanks," John says. "Can he clean?"  
  
The salesman's negative is drowned out by the slave's quick "Yes, sir."  
  
John bites back his surprise. He isn't used to slaves addressing him directly.  
  
The salesman looks furious and jerks the electroprod up once more. "Shut your mouth!" He tries a sideways smile at John, but it's visibly slipping. "Sir, you can see this one's useless; got quite a mouth on him, too. You'll want somebody younger, stronger."  
  
John hums noncommittally, stalling for time. So many things don't add up here. Anyone sensible would leave and forget the whole thing. This is just asking for trouble.  
  
The slave breaks the silence. "I'm a very good cleaner, sir," he says in desperation. "And I'm sure I could improve my cooking skills, given the opportunity."  
  
His voice is all wrong, John thinks. No slave should talk like that. Or at least no slave in the dingier part of a Feltham market.  
  
A sensible man would leave.  
  
"Draw up the purchase papers," John says to the salesman.


End file.
